


Room to Grow

by orphan_account



Series: Empty Space [2]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blues Dancing, Christmas, Circle of Friends - Freeform, College, Coping, Dialogue Heavy, F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Food Issues, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Law School, Non-violent Matt, Panic Attacks, Secret Keepers, Shorts, Truthful Matt, With Continuity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-23
Updated: 2015-08-05
Packaged: 2018-04-10 20:11:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4405898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A chronological collection of short stories of (law school)Foggy + (law school)Matt: revealing issues/secrets, being accepted, learning blues dancing and perfumery, holidays and hanging with friends.  We're shooting for 50-50 fluff/angst.<br/>---<br/>Now with minor edits to fit with the newly edited Empty Space</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Clarifying Dialogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt and Foggy have an important conversation, and table several other important conversations for the future

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is me trying to see how much story you can convey with only dialogue. The opposite of those no-dialogue comics issues. I have one dialogue tag and one paragraph of internal monologue, because this is a tough writing exercise.
> 
> But never fear! Other chapters will have much riches of exposition and introspection and action. They won't all be like this, though I really enjoyed writing this chapter and might do a few, shorter, dialogue-only interludes.

“Hey Foggy.”

“Yeah?”

“You know how we talked about sharing everything? Before all this?”

“Yeah, I remember. There something you want to talk about?”

“I don't know. There's lots of things that you don't know about me, but I don't know how to bring them up. And I don't want to keep secrets from you anymore.”

“Okay. How about I ask questions and you answer, unless it's super private and you don't want to tell me. No secrets doesn't mean we need to know everything. You have not and will not hear about the many embarrassing things I did in elementary school. I'm not sharing the contents of any creepy sex dreams. You're allowed to keep some things private.”

“Of course, yeah. Is there any ice cream left?”

“Only vanilla.”

“Never mind then. I'll just get some iced tea.”

“Okay, secrets. So you talked about your senses.”

“And you freaked out.”

“And I am really sorry I freaked out. But since I did that, I never stopped and asked. You can visualize shapes based on sound and vibrations and stuff, right? How much detail are we talking about here?”

“I could play catch, but I can't see your face. Moving things are easier, close objects are easier, closed spaces with solid surfaces to reflect sounds are easier.”

“Can you tell if I shake my head or nod or something?”

“Depends if I'm focusing on you. If yes, probably, if not, no.  It's like reading. If you were reading a book and someone waved at you from your periphery, you would probably see there was something going on but not know what unless you looked up.”

“You've put some thought into that metaphor, didn't you?”

“No comment.”

“Okay, I've got, like, a million questions about that. But there's no rush. Can you hear heartbeats all the time?”

“If they're in the room, yeah, usually. I can tune in to sounds further away and I can try to focus on something else to keep from hearing, but usually I can't help it.”

“That makes me feel a little better. Can you hear my music when I have headphones on?”

“Uh-huh. I can also hear most of what's going on in the surrounding rooms, though. You've got way better taste than some people.”

“Details!”

“Violation of privacy, Foggy! Who was it who called listening to heartbeats 'creepy and invasive'? I'm not going to tell you everybody's dirty secrets that they don't even know I know.”

“Fine. Do you actually need help walking places?”

“Depends.”

“Does everything depend, Murdock?”

“Mostly. I can get around by myself, but it's nice to not have to. It's kinda tiring and sometimes I miss things. If I need to find a visual thing, then yeah, it's nice. I can't do signs or traffic lights unless they've got those annoying jangly bird noises. I can hear them change, but I haven't figured out how to tell them apart.”

“Oh god, those annoying chirpy noises to signal you can walk. Do they dig into your skull and make you want to claw at your brain? Because my hearing is shit compared to yours and they drive me crazy.”

“They're very useful for the visually impaired.”

“And?”

“It's nice of traffic designers to try. Though the 'walk sign is on to cross name-of-street' is a lot more helpful.”

“Aaaaaand?”

“I can hear them from the nearest ten intersections from my bed in the room. They're out of sync so there's almost always one going off. It's constant background noise, so I mostly filter it out, like cars and car horns and breathing.”

“Well, that sounds like a hellish sort of existence. Let's see, um. Are you really picky because of the senses thing or is that from before?”

“I am not really picky.”

“There's at least twenty normal people foods you refuse to touch.”

“Lots of people have food they don't like.”

“I have never seen someone throw up because of vanilla ice cream before.”

“Yeah, okay. Can I pass on that question? It's kinda personal and I haven't put my thoughts together on the subject yet. We can talk about it later.”

“What, sure. Sure, sure. That's cool. Thought that'd be an easy one. Okay, easy one. Do you have any allergies you haven't told me about?”

“I have never been tested for allergies, no clue.”

“Any major phobias?”

“What separates a phobia from a rational fear?”

“I think phobias are irrational, but don't quote me on that.”

“Okay, hospitals. It's totally rational because you can hear lots of people dying and in pain and I hate it. But it looks irrational from the outside.”

“Wow, okay, had not thought of that. Let's not break any legs, buddy. How was the one in PA?”

“Pretty quiet. Active ER, a couple of cancer patients but not too much awfulness. It's possible I have an irrational fear of narcotics, but I haven't tried them again since. We'll see.”

“Or you can not break any legs and not need opiate painkillers. I'd drink to that.”

“I don't know if I feel comfortable drinking around people right at the moment.  Anxiety stuff."

“More the alcohol for me. That's cool, it'll keep you sharp while you pick out the hot guys and gals to herd them my way.”

“You're bi?”

“You already know this, buddy. Remember Tony, the guy I told you about from high school?”

“There are girls named Toni, you never specified. I just assumed. But okay, that's cool, I'll work on steering the handsome gentlemen your way.”

“Thank you. While we're clearing things up, you are straight, right?”

“I think? Maybe? I'm not all that interested.”

“Are you asexual?”

“Maybe?  I haven't really looked into that. But I've never been super interested for me. I like making people happy, but I can't. It's just really overwhelming and how do I explain why? I avoid it.”

“I feel like this topic is a minefield and we should talk about something else.”

“Foggy, it's fine. I'm fine. I'm still eating wheat and Candace told me about her killer sunburn from the beach and Colleen mentioned going to a fraternity party."

“Yeah, well it's making me feel uncomfortable. You can tell that, right? From my heart rate.”

“I can tell.”

“Okay, new question. Have any secret hobbies? You know I did knitting, presumably. Because I lied when I said I didn't. I also wrote embarrassing comics about Captain America as a child and performed in every musical until college. One musical in college.”

“I knew that, actually.”

“How did you know?”

“Your mother told me when we were cleaning out the guest room. She stumbled on some old photo albums.”

“Okay, so you do know everything about me. Secret hobbies of Matt Murdock: go!”

“I don't really have hobbies? I like Star Trek, not the oldest stuff. I listen to audiobooks, mostly science fiction and some British comedy. I like cooking, but it's really hard to cook and playact that cooking is difficult at the same time.”

“You're holding something back, Murdock. I can tell.”

“I box.”

“With who?”

“Not with people. When I went out late at night, I was using the gym. Punching bag, solo exercises, shadow boxing. That kind of thing. It helps with the,” he fluttered his hands, “anger.”

“Your dad taught you? That is so sweet. You'll have to show me sometime, okay, why are you shaking your head.”

“Dad didn't want me to fight.”

“You said. But boxing for exercise isn't joining the mob as a hitman. There are levels. So your dad didn't teach you boxing?”

“A bit I copied off what I remember seeing. But he didn't teach me any of the rest of it.”

“So who did?”

“Old guy at the orphanage. They brought him in because I was having trouble with my senses. I think the official diagnosis was sensory integration disorder.”

“Translate that to uninformed, but interested, person speak?”

“I was spending a lot of time laying in bed with my ears covered and screaming.”

“Fuck.”

“I was ten and after Dad, it was just all too much, so they brought in this guy. He was blind too and he helped put the pieces together so they made sense. Meditation, martial arts, control the mind through the body, control your perception through willpower.”

“You had a private martial arts instructor?”

“For a year and a half.”

“What was his name? Did you call him sensei? Did you learn how to fight with short swords and polish cars and stuff?”

“You're not going to believe me.”

“I will believe whatever you say.”

“He told me to call him Stick.”

“You were right, I don't believe you. Stick. Did he use a walking stick?”

“He was blind, he had a cane. He hit me with it.”

“Dude, that's child abuse.”

“He was teaching me how to be a warrior, you have to get hit to learn anything.”

“I feel like I am sensing a lot of your issues wrapped up in one old-dude package.”

“Okay, now I feel uncomfortable. Can we talk about this later?”

“The possibility you were abused as a child?”

“It wasn't abuse, as I explained to several teachers and social workers and that one ER doctor. It was teaching. He wasn't hitting me for fun.”

“Why were you in the ER?”

“I broke my arm jumping off a roof.”

“Why?”

“I botched the landing and couldn't get into the roll. Don't worry, it was only one story.”

“Not reassuring. Why did you jump off a roof?”

“It was that or be pushed.”

“Matt. People don't push children off roofs. Not good people. Who the hell was this guy?”

“A guy. I dunno. He left. I wasn't good enough and he couldn't be bothered to stay, so he left. I concede that Stick was an asshole, but that wasn't abuse. I wouldn't be able to do half the stuff I can if he hadn't pushed me so hard.”

“How much can you do?”

“You should come to the gym with me, I can show you.”

“Yeah, okay. Child abuse discussion tabled. Martial arts discussion tabled. Sex tabled. Ice cream and icky foods tabled. Lets cut to the chase, do the most important question and then go to the pool and float in some nice cool water until dinner time.”

“I'm game.”

“Okay, most important question. How do you know if people are hot? You said you can't see faces.”

“Well, I can get an impression of their body and how they move and carry themselves. I can assess other people's reactions, if they're attracted to them. I can go off of their voice and how they smell and how they speak. But I don't actually care if they're physically attractive.”

“Seriously?”

“I can't see them. Plus, not super interested in relationships getting to the sex part. I just like...”

“What. This is a secret, I can tell. What is it Matt Murdock, future attorney at law, looks for in women or other people-persons?”

“I like tactile people. Hand holding, hugging, casual touch. It's comforting and intimate without being overwhelming.”

“Are you a snuggler?”

“I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“Well, if you ever need a snuggle, I'm right here. Right here. Unless you want to snuggle right now, because it is blazing hot.  Let's go swimming.”

“Okay.”

“Just don't tell me what's in the public pool. I really don't want to know.”

“You have no idea how much you do not want to know.”

“I've heard rumors.”

“The rumors have nothing on what I know.”

“Then why do you want to go swimming?”

“Because it's really hot out? Come on.”


	2. The Gym

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt and Foggy go to Fogwell's together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Foggy-centric POV.
> 
> I know nothing about boxing, MMA or street fighting, beyond my knowledge of comic books and this show (and a semester class on Japanese kendo, focusing on choreographed katas), so errors may be found within.

Foggy didn't know much about boxing. Intellectually he understood the concept. He'd watched the Rocky movies, because who hadn't? He had even looked up the few Jack Murdock fights that had been saved and made their way onto youtube. He could tell good and he could tell if someone was losing bad, but that was about it.

Matt was like nothing he'd ever seen.

This was his first trip to the gym this semester, and true to his word he'd brought Foggy along. The gym was old, it could have doubled for a movie set for a film from the eighties. It was really far from campus. But it was homey and private and it was where Matt's dad had trained. But given that Matt hadn't been practicing for a month, unless he was doing it on the sly. How was he that fast?

It wasn't that he was Captain America. The bag wasn't in mortal danger. But Matt was fast. And he hadn't let up, been going long enough that Foggy was actually starting to get bored of the spectacle. He slipped in earbuds and started up an audiobook. One of Matt's indulgences, audiobooks were calming and a nice way to spend bus rides – and Foggy had grown to like them for walking between classes when Matt wasn't around. Matt's fists in the background were a patter like rain on a metal roof. Except thuddier. And meatier.

By the time Matt had stopped, he glowing with sweat. Foggy nearly got up, but Matt wasn't done yet. He toweled off and then swung up into the ring. Then he started a series of katas. First, smooth transitions between poses and holds. Then practice strikes and dodges at some invisible opponent. This sped up and shuffled between what might have been boxing and what certainly was not. Matt danced away from his shadow opponent, dipping and swinging. At one point he ran through a series of boxing strikes in a crouch, then on one knee, then fell over and swung his legs to knock over his opponent and jump back to his feet. One kick could have only been aimed to take out somebody's kneecaps.

“Alright, stop there,” Foggy said.

Matt froze, recovering from the landing of a cartwheeling flip that hadn't involved his arms at all, as far as Foggy could tell.

“In what circumstances would it ever be better to cartwheel rather than, like, ducking? That was ridiculously ostentatious. Also, dude. That was insane ninja stuff. I was not prepared for this.” The audiobook had been put aside at some point and he couldn't quite remember when.

Matt held up his hand for Foggy to wait. He melted down to the floor and lay there, breathing heavily, the spell broken. “Dunno. I guess it's intimidating?”

“That was more than intimidating, that was insane. Did you learn all that from that old dude?”

“Mostly?”

“Please tell me you have that choreographed and didn't just make all that up.”

“Some of it.”

“You need a drink?” He got up. Matt had left his water on the bench, along with his glasses and the cane.

“I could keep going.”

“I need to go to bed at some point, Matt. And this is your first time, you probably should push things. Too much. More. God, did you do a cartwheel with no hands?” He tossed Matt the water bottle, lowballing so it would land next to him. Matt's hand snaked out and caught it midair.

“I've been doing that since I was ten. Muscle memory.”

“Buddy, I have no idea what I was expecting,” Foggy said, “but that was not it. I am in shock. I am shocked.”

Matt stiffened.

“Not in a bad way, Matt, I'm just adding to the list of things to be jealous of. Insane ninja skills. You ever spar with actual people?”

Matt, who'd relaxed again, shook his head. “I don't fight people.” Propped up on one elbow, he snapped the top of the water bottle and drank. Foggy was going to have to talk to him about those disposable water bottles. Waste of water, plastic and mostly money. Maybe he'd just buy him a nice reusable one as a present.

“Because of your dad?”

“I don't think I could stop,” Matt admitted. “If I started. I think it would just consume me and the fire would be all that was left. My dad couldn't stop. He wanted to, to get a different job and a better life, I think. But he had no education and no other skills, which was how he justified it. But really, I think he couldn't feed that fire any other way once he started.”

“That is deep. A bit melodramatic, but deep.”

“I don't know how to explain it. It just eats at me.”

“Fighting?”

Matt paused, looking for the right word. “The devil.”

“Okay, that is very dramatic. And catholic. Very you.”

“Just something my grandma used to say.”

“But just so we're clear, if you did fight people and not just shadows, you could have taken those six guys?”

Matt shrugged. “Maybe. One to six isn't great odds. And I haven't landed a punch since Stick left, so maybe.”

“Well next time you should give it a swing, I say. There's a pretty broad gap between not fighting people and not even trying to protect yourself. I'd worry about you a whole lot less if you were willing to use all this,” he waved at the room in general, “if it came down to it.”

“I'm not going to fight.”

“Then why do you keep practicing?”

Matt shrugged. “That's a good question. It's nice to be good at something, you know? I have to work to be good at school. But this just clicks.”

“Because some old dude hit you with a cane a lot when you were younger.”

“Yeah, that. Sure. Let's go home, Foggy.”


	3. Coping, Badly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt gets overwhelmed and scares Foggy half to death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Foggy POV

Matt stopped having migraines after they talked about his senses. It turns out he'd never had migraines. He had days where he couldn't get his senses under control.

“Matt, it's your turn to cook, right?” He was coming back late, because the study date with Marci had spiraled a bit out of control. Matt was cooking, which was excellent news because he wouldn't have delayed dinner and because Matt was an excellent cook. A bit overemphasis on vegetables and health food, but still good.

It didn't smell like cooking in the apartment, never a good sign. The dishes from the night still hadn't been done and Foggy remembered with a sinking feeling that he'd said he'd wash up. No Matt in the kitchen. He knocked, but Matt wasn't in the bedroom either. The bathroom door was closed.

“Matt, are you in there?” Foggy knocked. No answer.

The door was locked, but they were the kind of locks you could bust open with a screwdriver or a pair of scissors in a pinch. He gave Matt three warnings and when there was no answer, pulled down the handle and turned the screwdriver sharply counter-clockwise. Click. The door swung open.

They had a bathtub. No one ever used it for baths, because who takes baths? Showers were quicker and more efficient, but technically there was a bathtub. You can't quite curl into the fetal position and keep your head above mouth and nose above water, but Matt was trying.

“Whoa, Matt. Are you okay?”

Definitely not okay. The room was a mess. Matt's heavy-construction-quality earplugs were out and had been knocked off the counter, spilling blue foam bits everywhere. Their bucket of cleaning supplies was out. Everything smelled like mint, probably from the scented candle sitting on the bathroom counter, the uncapped and half empty bottle of mouthwash, and the blue jar of peppermint oil Matt used for headaches.

And Matt. He was in the tub, curled up, still wearing his clothes. Foggy dipped his hand in the water. Ice cold. Matt wasn't blue, but he was shuddering like that was just a matter of time. His hands were bunched up in the fabric of his shirt, clutching white-knuckled.

“Matt! What the hell?” He wasn't answering. Foggy reached into the water, damn that was cold, and pulled Matt out of the water. Matt started, clearly unaware anyone was in the room with him, then flailed, splashing Foggy with cold. And wet. The moment he was out of the water, Matt started breathing like something was chasing him. Half breaths caught in his throat and Matt curled around his chest, wrapping his arms around his chest.

“Calm down, Matt. It's just me.” What did a panic attack look like? Did it look like this? He had no idea what you were supposed to do with a panic attack. Matt still wasn't acknowledging his existence, but Foggy knew he could hear him through those earplugs.

Matt was really goddamn heavy, especially soaked through. Foggy got him as far as the bathroom floor, where he at least wasn't at risk of drowning or hypothermia. Then he got out all of their towels, including the beach towels. Matt still looked like he was struggling to breathe, but he wasn't turning colors, so some of that oxygen must have been getting to his lungs. Foggy ran out and got a shirt and a sweater out of Matt's hamper and peeled him out of the wet shirt in favor of dry and warm. He was not touching the pants. He bundled Matt up as best he could and then, not sure of the boundaries of this situation, pulled Matt into a hug. With his free hand he caught one of Matt's crumpled claw-hands and squeezed.

His watch ticked. Tick. Tick. He got hungry and the puddle on the floor soaked through his jeans. Matt's breathing evened out, but there was otherwise no change. Foggy's butt hurt and his leg was starting to cramp but he wasn't going to move till Matt did. Matt had a couple of migraines the previous year, leaving him curled up in bed and unmoving, largely unresponsive. Was this that? Matt had never tried drowning a migraine or fighting it with aggressive aromatherapy before, he wasn't sure if he was ever going to smell anything that wasn't mint for the rest of time. It's like the oil was burning the inside of his nose. What was that like for Matt? He was really hungry. He didn't want to move either hand, but he did want to order pizza. He'd give Matt another half hour before he broke the hug for pizza.

It had been nearly twenty-three minutes sitting like that when Matt blinked his eyes open. He relaxed his hands and pulled the one away from Foggy. “Ow.”

“Ow?” Foggy echoed.

Matt flinched at his voice, free hand jerking abortively towards his ear. “Foggy? When did you get here?”

“Forty minutes ago, buddy. You okay?”

“Getting there. You should go eat.”

“Matt...”

“Give me a little longer,” Matt smiled. It looked really fake. “Need to pull everything together.”

Foggy didn't really want to leave, but he did want to stand up and change into dry clothes and order pizza. And Matt didn't look to be in imminent danger. And he was probably really embarrassed. So Foggy went and ordered pizza and gave him space. Then he did the dishes, because delivery would be awhile. By the time pizza arrived, Matt had wandered out of the bathroom and changed into sweats. He was still wearing earplugs.

“Hey, buddy, want some cheesy-saucey-breadstuff? I got it sans toppings, just for you.”

Matt hesitated. “Maybe later, Foggy.” He rifled through the fridge and came out with leftover rice, which he ate cold while Foggy worked on his second slice of pizza.

“So...we going to talk about that?”

“Sorry.” Matt said, ducking his head. His ability to follow this conversation seemed unimpeded by professional quality earplugs. “I can clean up after I finish this.”

“I'm not upset about the mess, Matt. I want to know what on Earth you were doing? And why.  The why is really getting to me.”

“It's loud,” Matt said. “Everything was too loud so I needed something to block it out.”

“Does this happen often?”

“Not while you're awake. Usually I meditate, get it under control. Sometimes it just...spirals.”

Foggy considered a third slice. They'd need to cut down on this thing if it was meant to fit in the fridge for Matt to eat later. Third slice it was. “But not normally with the cold water and the mint everything? You spooked me, you weren't answering.”

“Underwater you can't feel the vibrations and make a mental picture. If you get your ears under with earplugs you can cut the sound most of the way down. Enough mint and you can't taste yourself. Helps with smells too. The cold is kinda numbing.”

“No shit. Which is why you nearly gave yourself hypothermia? Please don't do that again.”

Matt huffed. “That wasn't that cold. Stick once-”

“Nope! We agreed we would not be talking about any sticks or stick related memories until you agreed that we were discussing child abuse. You do not get to use any stick-related-activities as evidence of okayness because I have heard nothing that man did that was okay.”

“I was fine.”

“You were non-responsive for forty minutes and had a panic attack. I thought you were going to drown.”

“I wasn't going to drown. I was very aware. Just struggling to figure out which sensations went to which things. Panic attack would explain why my ribs hurt.”

Foggy started rearranging the fridge so the leftover pizza would fit. Just had to move the pickles and Matt's eggplant and squash and it could go on the lower shelf. “Is there any other, less destructive, way you can deal with this?”

“Your heartbeat helped. I think if I had a,” he gestured helplessly, “somebody to focus on that could help. Or a dog. Or something. I get by, that was just particularly much.”

“Okay.” Matt looked like he was really struggling to keep up with the conversation. How long had Matt's 'migraines' lasted last year? They could talk about this later. “You should go to bed, Matt. You look like a mess.”

Matt mumbled something that wasn't disagreement and threw the empty takeout container in the trash. He shambled out of the room and Foggy cleaned up around the kitchen. After he'd given Matt a bit of time to settle into bed, he went and collected some books, his laptop, and a sweatshirt. Then he headed out to the library to study.

He went back once it was dark and his head was starting to spin with memorization. He practically tip-toed in the door, checking around the apartment. Matt had cleaned up the bathroom at some point. He'd gotten out some books to study with, no telling how long he'd tried reading before aborting that mission. He was in bed, maybe asleep. Maybe not. Foggy got changed and slipped into his own bed. Matt was curled up again, trying to make the smallest possible ball of human. Foggy rejected the idea of going over and giving him a hug. That would be weird and invasive. Especially if Matt turned out to be asleep.

 

* * *

 

They talked about it the next morning, when Matt had pulled it together, at least mostly. Foggy admitted that water and mint were acceptable coping mechanisms, as long as Matt used warm water and texted him before hand so he could make sure Matt wasn't unconscious in the bath. Matt, back to his usual stony self, rejected the idea of getting a therapy puppy.

“It would be soft and fluffy and good for exam stress!”

No luck. Any idea why this time seemed so much worse than last year?

“That's about how I was before Stick, all the time,” Matt said, “I was self-medicating last year by dating.”

“Dating? You're telling me you dated seven beautiful women for medicinal reasons?”

“Not entirely. They were all nice. I liked hanging out with them.  But when you start dating people are quite physically affectionate. All that skin on skin makes for calming hormones and neurotransmitters. It helps a lot. But I don't think I could do that now. The expectations.”

After that summer, hell yeah. “Okay, no dating. Matt Murdock needs a cuddle buddy.”

“I wish I could do dancing,” Matt said wistfully. Wistfully. Foggy's jaw dropped. This was his duck, admitting a thing he wished he could personally have. This didn't happen. Spartan Matt Murdock did not confess to desires. “Colleen said she took up blues dancing for awhile, when she was in a low spot emotionally. You got to interact physically with people without expectations. Of course, she also gets to spar.”

“Colleen does martial arts?”

“Colleen has training in Japanese swordsmanship,” Matt waved his fingers, looking for the word, “among other things. From her grandpa.”

“You could dance.”

“No,” Matt said. “I can't. That would be tough to explain. 'Hi, I'm blind but I can totally follow the lesson, so no worries.' No way could I convincingly pretend to be sighted while dancing either, too much eye contact.”

“Colleen could teach you!”

“No way. I am not stealing Misty's girlfriend for dance therapy. Misty is terrifying.”

“Colleen could teach me and I could teach you?”

“Foggy, just forget it. It was just a thought. I'll be fine.”

“Noo. You said you needed human contact to stay sane. You don't want to date and you're not willing to punch people. We'll figure this out.”

“I am going to the library.”

“Don't forget it's still your turn to cook! I'm expecting something amazing after last night.”

Matt ended up making a tart with tomato and eggplant and some sort of fancy cheese and it was really good. Foggy wasn't even aware they had a pie plate. Matt seemed relieved they'd moved on from that morning's discussion and did his best to only talk about school. But Foggy wasn't about to let go of an in like 'I wish I could dance'.


	4. Creamsicles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt can't sleep, so he goes and gets ice cream. Also Matt's initial toe-dip into late night heroism.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Matt's POV

There was somebody outside. They were crying. The way the sound filtered and distorted, just outside their building. “Foggy, wake up.” Matt climbed out of bed and shook Foggy's shoulder.

“Watsit? Matt, it's night.”

“I need you to tell me to stay inside.”

Foggy was barely conscious. It was probably one or two, by his internal clock. Foggy moaned sleepily. “Stay inside Matt, it's night-time. Wait.”

“Yeah, Foggy?”

“Why do you want to go outside?”

“I can hear them.”

“Hear who?”

“A person, outside. They're crying.”

“Matt, if it's bothering, you go outside. Tell them to shut up.”

“I don't want to hurt anyone.”

“Matt, it is way too late for this conversation. Go to bed. Or go outside and don't hit anybody. Problem solved. Good night.”

He couldn't sleep. Not with the crying and knowing what would come after. So he got up. The glass was chilly, radiating cold. He grabbed a sweatshirt and pulled it on, then slipped into sneakers. He needed an excuse. Twelve steps in each flight of stairs. No need to think about the way the footsteps, sound of bare feet rubbing against sneakers, echoed out. Twelve steps and turn, hand on the railing only to pull him around faster. His roommate was sick and he needed to go out and get medicine. Pretty sick if he was going out this late. High fever and they're out of ibuprofen. That'll do. As long as nobody who knows Foggy asks him for an excuse. First floor.

Four steps to the stairwell door, the pushbar halfway between waist and shoulder height. Left turn to the hallway, right turn to the lobby, cane unfold (clack, clack, clack, clack) and down. No need to mind the entryway or the rug, that's why he's got the cane. Cold air, autumn, not as cold as it's going to get. It smells like leaves and trash and mulch and the fresh paint on the railing and blood. Not tears, they don't have a scent, just saline. Blood has a scent you can taste.  Roll around on your tongue and pretend you don't want more.

They're to his left, so he turns. Tapping his way towards the two women. The shorter one is yelling, heart hammering, fists clenched. The other one is sitting on the ground, heart hammering, hands on her face letting through choking sobs. They both smell like Dad after a bad fight, alcohol and blood.

“You thought I wouldn't know? Damn, girl, you are dumb as rocks. I was always going to figure out your game.”

Matt approached. Straight face. What was he going to do? He wasn't even sure what the fight was about, except that the one woman wanted blood, already got some and wanted more. Some lover's quarrel? He should round the corner and call the police.

“I'm so-sorry,” the woman on the ground said.

The taller woman made to swing at her.

 

* * *

 

“Dude, what happened to your face?”

“Hmm?” Matt had made granola over the weekend. Fresh granola: rolled oats, wheatgerm, honey that claimed to be clover (Stick could have told you about the corn and lillies and twenty other pollinated plants.  Matt thought it tasted a bit too round for pure clover), cinnamon and oil. Some almonds to round it out. It was perfect, just on the right side of crunchy. He was feeling pretty tired. He'd sat with Emma until the police got there to take her statement, domestic abuse, assault. Leanne had bolted after she clocked a blind guy that wandered into their fight and that was the end of it. He'd decided to change his story to a late night study session that necessitated ice cream, so he had brought back creamsicles for him and Emma after the officer arrived. The police officer had accepted his story with surprisingly little hesitation and he hadn't really been questioned except as to back up Emma's claims. In all, he'd gotten about two hours of sleep. Totally worth it.

“It looks like someone punched you in the face.”

“She was about five foot,” Matt said, “I had to artfully stumble to get down to her level.”

“Dude, story. The whole story.”

“You said to go outside and get them to be quiet and not hit anybody. It seemed simplest to let her hit me. That way Emma was safe and the other woman bolted. Then we called the police and ate ice cream.”

“I vaguely remember talking about this. Doesn't that hurt?”

“Not really. I feel great.” So many victims. Crying, screaming, sirens. But he'd helped. Emma was going to be okay. They'd even found a hotline for domestic abuse victims while they were waiting and she'd promised to call, promised to see the counseling center if she felt like she needed it. They'd eaten ice cream and there was vanilla inside the orange and he hadn't thrown up. It was Emma's favorite.

“And what do you plan to tell people?”

“I got hit in the face by a five-foot maniac whaling on her girlfriend on the sidewalk while going to get ice cream. It's public record, I testified on the police report.”

Foggy was upset. He was generally upset, when Matt strayed off the safe topics. School, but not classes who screwed around with the disabilities office's regs. Girls, boys, but he swung wide around sex ever since. Movies, books, safe. The future. Any Nelson family history, stories from high school and undergrad. Dinner. Matt was trying to tell him the truth, but the truth generally seemed to upset him.

“Matt, you can't just let people hit you.”

“It worked.”

“Stop grinning like you won the lottery! You let a girl punch you.”

“I hope you're not implying you want me to hit girls.”

“I want you to show the tiniest modicum of self preservation. Jesus.”

“Blasphemy.”

“Shut it.”

“We still have 'proper' cereal, it's on top of the fridge.”

“I am eating your disgusting granola as punishment, in order to encourage you to consider self preservation. And then I'm putting half a cup of sugar on it because wow, man, you really don't believe in artificial sweeteners.”

“That makes no sense, Foggy. Eat your own cereal. And the granola is plenty sweet."


	5. Shibari Blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluff chapter where Matt tries a few new coping mechanisms with the help of friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Foggy POV
> 
> I know a bit about blues dancing (which is why I picked that as Colleen's speciality). I know nothing about shibari bondage, and so it is possible that (1) people don't do student beginner workshops on this subject, (2) that Matt as a layperson couldn't demo for such a workshop (3) there is an actual word for people being tied up in a demonstration? I apologize for any inaccuracies.

They were going to study together that weekend. Matt was the kind of nut who could study the whole weekend away. The whole weekend, with only brief breaks for study-weekend appropriate meals that cooked really quick. To Foggy that meant takeout. Matt had made quesadillas or huevos rancheros for the last four meals. He was on a real Mexican food kick. He wasn't usually much for spicy food, but apparently he'd changed his mind. Foggy was okay with that but it was weird.

They were going to study together, but Matt bailed Saturday morning after breakfast.  He'd been texting someone, presumably a girl. He kept smiling little secretive smiles every time his phone buzzed and then retreating to the other room to listen. Matt had said he wasn't dating for now but who knows.  Maybe he'd found a nice ace gal and they were going on a romantic hike.  So when Matt bailed after breakfast, promising to be back by lunchtime, Foggy didn't object too strongly.  Study all weekend ought to involve a couple hours of breaks. 

But Matt floated back in a couple minutes after twelve and made himself a sandwich with cream cheese and cucumber slices and was positively glowing. If it was anyone else in any other circumstances, Foggy would have jumped straight to assuming sex. But no. This was Matt.  He looked uncoiled, the opposite of how he'd looked after that 'migraine' the third week of classes.

“What have you been up to?” Foggy asked. “You look happy.”

“Shibari workshop with Emma,” Matt said, in what was definitely not an explanation.

“Emma?”

“Girl I got punched in the face for last week.”

“Oh, her. What is shibari?”

“Japanese rope bondage.” Matt smiled dopily. Foggy did his best to pick up his jaw. “Not sexual or anything. It was a beginners workshop, she just needed someone to model for the demonstration ties. Her usual partner has mono.”

“You do bondage?” Foggy was pretty open-minded, but this was a weird mix. Control freak Matt and getting tied up in public.

“I'm thinking about it. It's really relaxing. And there's touching, but with boundaries and rules. I told Emma if she ever needed help again, I'm right there.”

Foggy filed 'shibari bondage' under things to look up in the near future. “Does this mean you really don't want to go to a cuddle party?”

Matt rolled his eyes. “I am not going to a bunch of strangers and admitting I'm sad and pathetic and have emotional issues. I don't want pity.”

“It's not a pity party. It's a cuddle party. I read about it in the newspaper.”

“You can go without me, that's totally okay.”

Worth a shot. “Well, rope bondage or no, if you need any cuddles I am right here.”

“Okay, buddy.” Matt got up and put his plate in the sink. Dude, the guy was barely touching the ground.

 

* * *

 

“Colleen, could you teach me how to dance?”

Colleen raised an eyebrow. Just one. She had impressive control over her facial muscles. Foggy and Matt had invited the girls over for dinner. Matt had cooked, Foggy had cleaned up the public parts of the apartment. After, Foggy and Colleen had decided to go out on a walk. Matt and Misty were talking about police stuff that neither of them were interested in. And Foggy had been wanting to corner Colleen on this issue for awhile.

“Franklin Nelson, what makes you think I can dance?”

Foggy shrugged. “Matt said you learned blues at some point. Now this is a secret I was supposed to take to the grave, but Matt really wants to learn how to dance. But he doesn't want to ask somebody to teach him. So I figured I could learn and then I could teach him and we'd be good.”

“I have no idea if that is the most ridiculous lie or the sweetest thing I've ever heard. Really, blues is pretty simple. There are a lot of videos on the internet you could figure most of it from.  And there's a club on campus that does lessons.  It's a good choice for Matt – you don't travel a lot around the floor and it's pretty simple. But it is a fairly sensual dance.” She laced her fingers behind her head. “Good for impressing the ladies, but it could be awkward to do with your roommate.”

“Does Misty dance?”

“Misty leads. But she's more in for more modern dances. She indulges me occasionally.”

Their walk had circled the block and landed them back on the front step. It was cool and getting colder. Thanksgiving would be coming up soon and he'd have to convince Matt to come home with him. Mom would be cross if Matt didn't, but he seemed a bit hesitant when Foggy broached the subject. Maybe he'd come for part of the time and skip the big dinner – there were a lot of extended family and Matt didn't really do parties.

“Do you spend all your time worrying about him?”

Foggy definitely did not. He spent at least an hour a day worrying about his classes. “That's not how I would have phrased it. But it seems like it, sometimes.”

“It's kinda cute. You guys should date.”

“Matt doesn't date. Not since this summer. He says he's given it up.”

“Think he actually ever went to that therapist?”

“We can safely rule that out, I think.”  He shrugged.  What can you do?

“Okay, I'm going up to collect Misty. She has shift at five tomorrow morning, so we should probably get going. You want to learn to dance, I don't have class Thursdays.”

 

* * *

 

“Okay, so the basic step of blues isn't a step at all. It's a pulse. Down and up. Down and up. Wait, I'll put the music on and that'll be easier to demonstrate.”

Matt was still laughing, not quite falling off the chair. They'd moved the furniture a bit to open up space, so if he were to fall off it'd probably be onto the bed. “You learned how to dance because of a confession I made with three hours of sleep.”

“Not just for you, Murdock! There turns out to be a swing club on campus and there's this really cute guy, Jeryn. I think I might go just to hang out with him. Plus, I need some non-you social activities. And you're right, drinking parties just aren't as much fun as they were as an undergrad.”

“So, the pulse.”

“Yeah, you need it so you can communicate to your partner and keep each other in rhythm. Can you see-okay, I know you can't see me. But can you figure out what I'm doing, now that the music's playing?”

“Kinda.”

It turned out that while Matt was very graceful when it came to ninja boxing (Foggy went with him some nights. It was relaxing to watch Matt work and listen to a book and drink a beer. Just one and then they'd take a bus back even though Matt hated buses. Other nights Matt went alone and worked longer and probably harder and Foggy did something else. Like attending blues lessons) he wasn't all that good at dancing. Or maybe Foggy wasn't a good teacher. They both collapsed into giggles over the 'funky-butt', because they were mentally seven. The steps weren't hard, Matt just had trouble following what Foggy was doing and kept getting off rhythm and half a step behind.

“I'm sorry, buddy. This is not going as well as I pictured.”

Matt cracked a grin. They were dancing in closed position in a last-ditch attempt to help Matt figure out the connection. Matt was wearing one of his boxing shirts with the sleeves cut off and there was an acceptable amount of skin contact. Foggy was fairly sure most people didn't have his much of a reaction from dancing or there would be more than twenty regulars at the social club. “Could I try leading? I mean, just the stuff you already showed me.”

Matt was a little better at leading. He could keep to the rhythm, at least, though he led two whole songs with only the step-and-drag basic. He seemed to be having a perfectly good time, though, so Foggy tried not to be bored. Eventually they called it a night and Matt didn't seem opposed to the idea of trying again after Foggy went to the club and learned some more, or maybe picked up some moves from watching the competition dancers, whose videos were all over the net from years back. Foggy didn't even dream of being that coordinated, but there were some things in there he could probably imitate.

It was a good night. Matt agreed to go to Thanksgiving, caught up in the moment. He'd regret that later, but Foggy intended to hold him to it.


	6. Interlude I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dialogue interlude - Matt and Foggy and the noises in their building

“What do you hear?”

It was late. He'd thought Foggy was asleep, but no luck. There were two sirens, one firetruck and one ambulance. There was a guy on the floor above them who was talking on the phone – talking to a parent. Paolo. His brother was in the hospital and they weren't sure if he would pull through. There were two couples having sex within hearing range, he was working on not noticing them. Someone had screamed a couple of minutes ago and he was waiting for the follow-up. Odds were they were watching a horror movie, he was still figuring the difference between terror and its cinematic counterpart.

“I hear lots of things. You should go to sleep.”

“You should go to sleep. You're doing that thing again, I was wondering what it meant.”

“Thing?”

“You turn your head sideways and get real quiet.”

“Somebody screamed. I think they're watching a scary movie, but it's hard to be sure.”

“Do you wake up every time someone screams in this building?”

This was probably one of those times Foggy would rather if he lied. But he'd promised he wouldn't, not any more. “Usually. Not just in the building, though.”

“What do you hear?”

“Voices. Sirens. Arguments. Cats, dogs, crying.”

“Always?”

“They're like the chirping street signs. If you try hard enough, you can blend it all into the background.”

“I think I understand why you don't ever sleep.”

“Oh, there we go. It was just a movie. She's talking to her friend about it.”

“Going back to sleep?”

“Yeah, we're good. Goodnight, Foggy.”

“Night, Matt.”

Upstairs, Paolo had hung up the phone. He was crying, sucking sobs that whistled between clenched teeth. There were voices, voices all around. Matt lowered his head back to the pillow and focused in. One heartbeat, bigger than all the other sounds. A second heartbeat, drowning out the voices.


	7. Like a Ninja

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt saves Foggy from a mugger, breaking his one rule in the process

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Matt and Foggy POVs
> 
> Things I know about mugging people: literally nothing.

Foggy wanted to leave. Matt was just warming up. Ghosting through a drill Stick had run through with short sticks, without the sticks and without Stick. Foggy was shifting in his seat, restless. Matt didn't know how long they'd been at the gym, his watch was on the bench with the rest of his more breakable goods. Foggy had really wanted to come, they'd both been busy since Thanksgiving and their class schedules weren't working this semester. Foggy was dating the cute guy from blues dancing, which was cool. Matt had been to another shibari workshop and it had been fun, but not as much fun as the first time. He was getting better at not waking Foggy when he couldn't sleep.

“You don't have to stay,” he offered. “I could keep going for another hour and then do some running.”

“This is how people feel when they have kids, right? The little guy just runs everywhere and you're like, 'how does he have the energy? From whence does it come?' while you're slogging along behind them. Matt, you've been going for an hour and a half.”

And? Matt felt great. He could feel the hunger clawing at him but it was happy because he was hitting things. And he could hear people in distress, but he was tuning them out. That's just how it was going to be for the rest of his life. And he was in control now. It'd been a few weeks since he'd gotten to dance or do a workshop but he wasn't desperate enough yet to ask Foggy for a hug. But right then, he could feel the endorphins pumping and he felt great.

“Been that long?” He was bouncing a bit on his toes.

“Okay, I get it. You want to keep going. You don't mind if I bail?”

“Nah, it must be really boring sitting and watching. Sure you don't want to learn how to throw a punch? Make up for all those dance lessons?”

Foggy's heart rate sped at the words, either thinking about Jeryn or guilt about abandoning their lessons. One of those. Matt wasn't in the mood for Sherlocking it out just then.

“Not tonight, buddy. It's ten-thirty, I don't want to miss the last bus.”

He packed up and Matt went back to work. He heard Foggy at the door, the hinge creaked and the latch clicked, not quite lined up. Foggy walking down the street, humming a tune that took a moment to place. Pirates of Penzance. For a person who couldn't carry a tune in a bucket when he sang, Foggy was pretty good at humming. And whistling. Just not singing. Matt'd just listen till he got to the bus stop, then he'd focus back in. In the meantime he'd do something simple, shadowboxing.

There were footsteps following Foggy. Unsteady breathing, addict maybe? They were too far away. Too far away.

 

* * *

 

Foggy knew someone was following him. He wasn't stupid, he knew they were following. But, irrationally, he felt like if he didn't turn around and acknowledge they would go away. He didn't have much on him; bus pass, id card, phone, mp3 player. Replacing the phone would be a pain, financially. He'd just loaded Good Omens onto the mp3 player, he didn't want to download it again. Maybe they'd go away, or the bus would swing by just as he got to the stop and it'd all be cool. Positive thinking. He was going to bring a baseball bat next time, he could practice his swing while Matt worked.

“Hey man. Stop.” Slurred words, was this guy drunk? Foggy forced himself to turn around, sinking feeling, yeah. Gun. “Give it over.” Did this guy have the safety on, because he was using the gun to gesture and it made Foggy feel quite uncomfortable.

Foggy put his hands up, reassuringly nonthreatening. “Okay. No problem dude. I don't have any money on me.” He never brought much with him on these trips, Hell's Kitchen had a reputation. It deserved that reputation.

That sentence didn't really seem to connect. “Money. Give it.” Maybe the guy was on drugs, and not drunk. Maybe both. Skinny little guy, if it weren't for the gun Foggy could have taken him. Hypothetically.

“I don't have any money.” Fuck it, next time he would remember to bring some just so he could give it away to drugged up, angry junkies.

“I'll shoot you,” the guy said. “I'll do it, just hand over-”

Matt hit him from behind at the knees, sliding like he was making a base, knocking the dude over backwards. Foggy hadn't even heard him running. In less than a second, Matt had the gun arm pinned and twisted and had the gun. He popped the magazine out and threw the empty gun and the magazine in opposite directions. Then he was straddling the guy and punching him and the horror finally sunk in. Each hit sounded wet, meaty. In the orange halogen light of the streetlamp the blood looked black.

“Stop!” Matt didn't respond. “Stop, Matt. Goddamn it,” he grabbed Matt's shoulders and yanked him backwards. Matt went still. The tape on his hands was covered in blood. The guy looked like he had a broken nose, but we was definitely still breathing.

Matt kicked away from him and bolted, running back towards the gym. Foggy hesitated. Junkie mugger might need an ambulance. His heart was still pounding in his ears and he tried to regulate his breathing. Had the guy gotten a good look at Matt?

He hoped not, because when the police came he left Matt out of the story. Crazy druggie tried to rob him, other crazy guy, yeah no clue who, jumped the robber and started whaling on him. Then bolted. Foggy must have looked sufficiently shocked, because nobody really questioned the story. They took the guy away and Foggy went back to Fogwells to look for Matt. No Matt. All his stuff had been cleared away. So Foggy caught the bus and headed back to the apartment. No Matt. He called twice in the next half hour and left messages, because Matt wasn't picking up.

“Okay Matt, you can come home. We're cool. I'm not mad at you. Thanks for saving me, by the way, I was really scared and you can come home now. I'm worried.”

He got a call from Misty two hours later, after he'd finally calmed down enough to try and go to bed. Matt wasn't hurt, he wouldn't want Foggy to call the police. He'd come home eventually. “Hey Nelson, sorry to call so late. Matt's here.”

“At your apartment?”

“In our bathtub having a mental breakdown. Can you come over here? I knew Matt had issues, but this is beyond anything I know how to deal with.”

“I'll be there as soon as I can.”

They stayed on the phone the whole trip over to Misty's apartment, a twenty minute walk under normal circumstances. Matt had come over, blood dripping from his gloves and said he needed to take a shower. He'd been white as a sheet, whiter than usual. They'd said okay, figured Matt would tell them what the hell was going on once he got cleaned up. Ten minutes later he wasn't answering and they opened the door because what if he'd gone into shock?

Misty got the door for Foggy. “Colleen's with him,” she said. She looked like hell, still wearing boxer shorts and a tank she'd probably been sleeping in. “He won't let us get him out of the water. Thrashes and nearly bit Colleen the one time she tried. He's saying something, probably a prayer? Not in English.”

Colleen was soaking wet and wearing a bathrobe over pajamas with little octopi all over them. The bathroom floor was wet too, all the rugs moved out into the living room to avoid the swamp. Collen was speaking low, soothingly. “Okay Matt, Foggy's here. It's gonna be okay. You look really cold, Matt. Do you want to get out of the water yet?”

All of Matt's stuff was dumped by the bathroom door. He'd climbed into the tub wearing everything except the sneakers, the handwraps still pink and tinging the water pink as well. He was shivering because of course the water was freezing and he looked like he'd been crying at some point. He was muttering something, over and over, but it was too quiet to hear what he was saying. Foggy sat down on the edge of the tub, wet soaking into his jeans. Matt didn't make any move to push him away, made no sign he noticed him there.

“Hey buddy,” Foggy said. “I'm here. I'm safe, okay? Everybody's safe.” He glanced at Misty and Colleen, sitting behind him. Very confused.

“Look, bud. If you don't talk to me I'm going to have to tel Col and Misty all your secrets. Otherwise they're going to take you to a hospital. Please, just say something.”

The muttering tapered off. Matt bit his lip and said nothing.

“Okay, going to tell Colleen and Misty everything. Speak now or forever hold your peace, Matt. Last chance.”

Matt ducked his head under the water. Colleen started forward and Foggy wondered for a horrified moment if Matt would really try to drown himself in a bathtub with all of them watching. He resurfaced. “Tell them,” he whispered. “Then Misty can arrest me and it'll all be okay.”

“Okay, you want me to tell them. In exchange, we drain the tub and you go to sleep.”

Matt rubbed at his hands, still wrapped. “Not clean.”

“Swimming is not how you clean off, Matt. You're not three, I think you know how to take a bath. Stop it with the drama queen nonsense and go to bed.”

Eventually they got him out of the tub and Foggy helped him change into the spare clothes he'd brought. He settled down on the couch and they covered him up with all the blankets and retreated to the kitchen. At least it was a Friday night, no, scratch that. Saturday morning. He hoped neither of the women had work in a couple of hours.

“Okay, Nelson. What the hell is going on?”

He put his face in his hands. “Should I start with tonight or the beginnging?”

“I'd like to know about tonight,” Colleen suggested. She bustled about, fixing up hot chocolate, one mug for each of them.

“Okay, some guy tried to mug me and Matt went ballistic and wouldn't stop hitting him. I had to pull him off and he bolted here, I guess.”

“Okay, I vote we start at the beginning,” Misty said. “Because that answers approximately zero of my questions.”

The beginning. Matt has crazy senses because of the accident. Matt was raised in an orphanage. Neither of them had known about that, because it was months before Matt mentioned his dad to Foggy. Some lunatic, about which Foggy still knew practically nil, had taught him to use said crazy senses to fight. But he'd left and somehow Matt had become convinced that if he hit anybody he was going to hell in a handbasket and that he'd never be able to stop. “He practices down at Fogwell's gym. I believe Matt could have fought off those guys this summer. Probably both times, but he refuses to defend himself. He broke up a fight outside our building by walking in the middle of it and letting some girl hit him. I've seen him practice – Matt could be winning MMA tournaments instead of pursuing law.”

“What I'm getting out of this is that Matt is even more of a ball of issues than he indicated while we were dating.”

“Oh yeah.”

“I knew he was a ball of issues even then. Negotiated consent is one thing. But Matt had a whole list of things he didn't like, typed up. He emailed them to me after our first date because I'd violated one of his rules – no kissing or otherwise touching his throat. You say that's all his senses?.”

“Good luck getting him to admit to anything else.  What do you guys think happened tonight?”

“Self-fulfilling prophesy,” Colleen said, fishing marshmallows out of her hot chocolate with a spoon. “He bundled up all his issues and his anger so long because he was afraid of himself. Then, when he let loose he really couldn't stop.”

“You guys aren't going to arrest him?”

Misty smiled. “Do you have any idea what Colleen does, Foggy?”

“You're taking classes, right Colleen? And you work at the pool over the summer as a lifeguard.”

“I work as a private investigator in my spare time.”

“And I work for the police. Really, Foggy. Both of us have beaten somebody bloody and nearly unconscious. Difference is I reprimand Colleen if she does it, I get reprimanded if I do that and Matt apparently freaks out and tries to drown himself.”

“I think there was a reason for that,” Foggy said. He launched into an explanation of Matt and 'migraines' and the episode with the tub at their apartment. “I think these attacks are sorta like panic attacks and are probably associated with stress. He's trying to get one really strong set of sensations to blur everything else out. Since he was feeling really guilty, he jumped straight to painful sensations. At least your bathroom won't smell like Christmas for a week.”

“Okay, that makes a surprising amount of sense. But it is really, really late at this point and I intend to go to bed. We can all talk about this tomorrow.”

Foggy had been certain that Matt would stay up and listen in on their conversation. They were only in the next room and they were talking about him. But no, Matt was sound asleep under his blanket puddle. Foggy rejected the idea of going home and slept in Colleen's sleeping bag in the living room. The women went back to the bedroom and closed the door.

There would be a lot to talk about the tomorrow.


	8. Girl Gang

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Colleen and Matt spar, everybody talks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Misty's POV
> 
> I've never watched a girl gang movie, but Misty and Colleen definitely would have.

“Hell yeah, pancakes. I knew I loved you for a reason, Col.” It's ten in the morning, a respectable hour to be up and dress and eating pancakes made by your beau. Does anyone actually use that word any more? She'd ask Colleen when they didn't have house guests. Colleen was dressed and showered and wearing tight jeans and a green swishy tunic. Misty had changed into sweats and one of her many white t-shirts, because real clothes before breakfast seemed to be the wrong order of things.

“Three cheers for Colleen,” Foggy echoed, already sitting at the table and nursing a second cup of tea. He was still wearing clothes from the night before, presumably because he'd grabbed clothes for Matt but not himself. There was a growing pile of pancakes on a plate in the center of the table that he was eyeing, but they hadn't started plating and eating. Colleen was still working and Matt wasn't at the table yet.

“Thanks guys,” Colleen said, bending over her shoulder to snag a kiss. Her lips tasted like raspberries, she'd probably put chapstick on just before Misty walked in. “Pancakes will be done in five. The kettle's hot, Misty.”

“Hear that, Matt?” Misty said, bumping the fridge closed with her hip and clunked the syrup on the table. “Five minutes and you better be at the table. I get grumpy when I'm made to wait on breakfast. He is up, right?”

“Yeah,” Foggy said. “Been up for hours. He's wearing different clothes, actually, so I think he might have walked home and then walked back.”

“Move it Murdock! I have official testimony that you can and have gotten off that couch so: pancakes.”

Out of the corner of her eye she could see Matt sitting on the couch, face turned so his ear was facing the kitchen. Seeming to steel himself, he stood up and started walking slowly towards the kitchen. Misty found a mug for Matt, one of the Christmas ones in the back of the cupboard. Then she made a cup of coffee and sat down. Matt stepped into the kitchen, right hand out to find the doorframe and then the back of a chair. He sat down, stony faced.

“Okay, that's the last of the pancakes. Anybody going to want theirs with jam or butter?”

Matt raised his hand slightly. Collen hummed and popped the fridge back open to get a half-empty container of strawberry jam and the butter dish.

“Matt, this isn't a firing squad. None of us are going to start shouting or shooting you,” Misty said as she forked pancakes from the communal plate onto her own. “So you could relax a little bit and enjoy breakfast.”

“Sorry for worrying everyone, last night,” Matt eventually found the words. He'd changed back into sweats and a sleeveless shirt, exercise clothes. It was an incongrous look on Matt. Misty had never seen him less than perfectly put together, the three nights they'd been out together. The thought of Matt minus preppy clothes was still connecting. Dressed like that, she could see a red scrape up his left arm, probably from the dramatic slide Nelson had described. His knuckles were an angry red color. He needed more pancakes, so Misty took the liberty of forking him a small stack.

“Apology accepted, please accept these pancakes, skinny-dude. I'm worried you're gonna cut somebody on those elbows. Eat up.”

Matt looked like he wanted to protest her fetching him food, and with super-senses or whatever he could have definitely done it by himself. But he'd have been polite and only taken, like, three or something. Couldn't have that. There was a mountain of pancakes needing eating.

“I concur,” Foggy added. “Apology accepted, let's talk after breakfast. More munching, less angsting.”

Colleen didn't say anything, because she was busy eating pancakes.

 

* * *

 

After that, they talked. Matt didn't have much to say, but he answered Colleen and Misty's questions with minimum prodding. He only ventured one question: “You're not going to arrest me?”

Misty laughed. “Nah. Guy tried to shoot someone and you stopped him. Case closed. Gonna put you down as a good samaritan.”

“It felt good,” Matt admitted, like he was confessing to having sex with his sister. Not that he had a sister. But you know. Like it was really bad.

“Dude, he was threatening to shoot your best friend and you took him down in, what, ten seconds? Somebody who's taken more human anatomy than me can probably rattle off a whole list of hormones and shit to explain why that felt good, but I'm gonna go with that. You let yourself do something you're good at for a good reason and it worked and that feels good.”

“Do you feel good when you shoot people?”

“I would feel awful shooting somebody, because they'd be dead after. I've only been on the force for a year, Murdock, there's not near as many police shootings as you're picturing on my beat. But when I taze some sonuva who was hurting somebody or threatening to? That is really damn satisfying.”

“Hey Matt, could we spar?” Colleen asked.

“Umm.”

“It's okay if the answer's no. But we've spent a lot of time talking about your killer moves, and my only question is: are you better than me? Think you could take me in a fight?”

Misty whistled. “Ooh, Col's getting competitive.”

“I have no idea, Colleen. Never seen you fight.” Matt quirked a smile.

“Don't be a smartass, Matt.” Foggy said.

“I go to a dojo nearby to practice, they don't do classes Saturdays, so we could have the place to ourselves. Swords or fists?”

“I never learned blades,” Matt said. “But if they're just practice swords, I like tantōs.”

“Okay, let's try a mix of things. You guys coming?”

“I am going to go home, take a shower and do homework,” Foggy said. “If you're okay by yourself, Matt.”

“Not my mother,” Matt said. “I'll be fine. But let's wrap this up by one-ish, okay? I missed a whole night of studying.”

The threat of competition did seem to have pulled him out of his funk. Foggy left and the rest of them headed down to Colleen's practice space. Misty was looking forwards to this. She loved watching Colleen move and Matt was a curiosity. It would be nice to have him as a known quantity.

“Okay, warm up first.” Colleen said. “Ten minutes?”

Matt cracked his neck and said, “Sure.” He finished surveying the room with one hand trailing along the wall, then dropped his gym bag and folded up the cane. Misty settled back and watched Colleen stretch, run through forms and practice strikes with and without a practice katana. Matt skipped straight over stretching. He started by sitting on the floor and appearing to meditate for five minutes. Then he got up and did straight shadow-boxing, no hint of any other training there.

“Time!” Misty called. They both tapered off, not ending quite on the minute. “Okay, I think I should ref this.”

“I wasn't planning on doing the kind of sparring that has refs,” Colleen said.

“Okay, I judge then. Win-lose. Who has the prettiest ass. You know, the important stuff. Colleen, if I'm not doing anything, why am I here?”

“Well, when Matt loses to me, he can save face by winning against you.”

“You did not,” Misty said. But yeah, not a crazy martial artist. You didn't need to be, in order to be a good officer. That showy stuff would just distract from playing with the team, keeping everybody safe. Unless Foggy were exaggerating Matt's skills (which could be, the man admitted he couldn't tell heads from tails of competitive fighting. Matt had claimed he wasn't very good, that he had been a poor student and was out of practice.), Misty probably couldn't take him in a fair fight. With the authority of the law you didn't need a fair fight.

First round they went sword against two practice tantos that they were pretending were escrima sticks. “You should get some real escrima sticks. Or maybe bastons?”

“Don't need them,” Matt said. “Not fighting, remember?”

“Yeah, but you could use them to spar with me,” Colleen suggested with a toothy grin. Colleen smiled a lot. Indulgently, knowingly, condescendingly, placatingly. Misty had seen the lot. Colleen even had a special smile for the people who yell at women on street corners. But the grin with teeth she reserved for when she was anticipating eating someone alive.

Matt cocked his head a bit, rolling the thought around. “We'll see.”

They started out fast, Colleen lunging with a strike towards Matt's head. He blocked easily. With the shorter blades, he didn't have enough reach to do dramatic swings. But the first row ended after several spins and jumps and Colleen's favorite downward heart stab with Matt pinning her blade to the ground and catching his other stick against her throat. “Match,” he said.

“Matt, that would only be a win if it were a blade. Weren't we pretending you had sticks?” Misty asked.

“It's a win, Misty,” Colleen said. “In a fight he'd have carried through and crushed my windpipe.”

“Thank you. Another?” Matt sounded hopeful.

Colleen insisted they stop for a drink break, but then the recommenced. Collen won, but not before they passed the ten minute mark and Matt lost one of his blades by throwing it at her legs. Colleen went down, but recovered before Matt could close the distance and landed a proper gut-stab with a twist and ended the match. “If you hadn't lost your second you could have pulled through, I think,” she said.

“Couldn't find it,” Matt confessed. “It's small and when I'm fighting you I focus way in. Couldn't pull back enough to find it.”

“Damn, didn't think of that. The practice tantos are black and the floor is white and it's really easy for me to see where it is.”

“Well, we've all got our advantages. I could tell most of your jumps before they happened because I could hear your weight shift. And your heart races a bit when you think of a really wicked move you want to try.”

“I noticed. You move like you're precognitive, some of the time. And it's really disconcerting how you know what I'm doing when you're facing the other way.”

“Thanks. You want a spin, Misty?”

“Nah, I'm good.” She was good. She was watching her favorite woman be sexy and powerful and it was very nice. Very nice. And, incidentally, working up their grocery list for the week on her phone. But mostly the first thing.

“Unarmed?” Colleen asked. Matt offered her back the tantos in way of response. “We go until yield.”

And yeah, this was definitely more Matt's thing than Colleen. He wasn't interested in hurting her, only going for punches where it might throw her off balance, let him in close for a lock. Colleen was at a disadvantage grappling because of his height and, while Misty had joked about his weight, Matt had at least a few pounds on her. They caught each other and spun away and Matt aborted several bonecracking kicks at the last minute, seeming to forget for a moment this was a friendly match. Had nobody taught him how to fight any way except full on? But somehow they ended in with Colleen holding Matt in an arm lock, twisting a little less than painfully.

“Let go,” Matt hissed.

Misty looked up. Didn't look any different from the five or six other locks they'd caught each other in and then rolled or twisted away from. But Matt looked livid.

Colleen let go immediately and put her hands up. “You not know how to get out of that one? I could teach you.”

“Fucking hate that lock,” Matt muttered and Misty Knight was certain this was the first time she had ever heard him curse. He'd never said a bad word during his time in hospital in Pennsylvania. Never while they were dating, though he'd come close when she unknowingly violated his sacred bad-touch list. It wasn't blasphemy, but still. Matt Murdock didn't curse – as far as she knew.

“Seriously, man. I could teach you. It's tricky, but I saw you do a spin just like it earlier.”

Matt breathed, deeply. In, out. In, out. Not answering. He looked sorta like someone staving off a panic attack and yeah, that was possible.

“Okay, no lock. I will stop talking about it and never do that move again. We cool?”

“It's fine,” Matt gritted out. “I've just, I've been fighting that stupid lock since I was eleven and it always ends like that.”

“Eleven?”

“I did all my training between eleven and twelve, basically. After that I'm self-taught.”

“Mm, Foggy didn't mention that specific detail.”

“I haven't told him dates or anything.”

Colleen patted him on the arm. “Okay, well then. Not today, but some other time. If you want to know how to defeat your personal arm-lock demon, let me know. I bet you could figure it out on your own, though, now that you're a grown adult. And not eleven.”

“It's a stupid thing to get hung up on,” Matt confessed. “It's just failure was...bad. And that one lock seems permanently wired to failure. It's a struggle to even try and get out of it.”

Colleen wandered off to get some water. “Dude, your teacher may have been excellent at teaching fighting but he screwed up big time when it came to the psychological stuff.”

“I keep hearing that,” Matt said. “So, how am I?”

“You really have no idea, do you?”

“Well, Foggy is easily impressed. And the only people I've ever fought are you, the guy from yesterday and Stick. The guy from yesterday was really high and I never even touched Stick. Because I suck. According to him.”

“I would say that you are definitely better than me, at least at hand to hand. You were holding back the whole time, though your sparring etiquette leaves a bit to be desired. I agree with the assessment that you could probably make a living on MMA tournaments if you were willing to go public with your senses. You're not the best in the world or anything, but if you practiced fighting real people you could become the best I've ever seen. Also, your mentor was an ass. He said that when you were eleven?”

“He said a lot of things,” Matt shrugged.

“If we ever see that guy,” Misty said, “remind me I said we should go all 80's girl gang on him. Okay, Col?”

And Colleen and Misty laughed while Matt tried to explain that his mentor was scary and dangerous and they definitely shouldn't mess with him.

 


	9. Christmas Break

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, so sorry this is going up later than I'd planned. I've been distracted writing some other story (which on further inspection isn't panning out and would need to be rewritten) and forgot to post up the buffered chapters. But I'll make it up to you, because this is the Christmas fluff story! There are thoughtful presents, perfumery, cranberry sauce and small children. Everything a girl or guy could want in a fluffy Christmas story. It is possible that in-canon St. Agnes ought to be an awful place. I do not care. It is a place of cheer, happiness, Sister Theresa's famous Christmas soup and small adorable children.

Winter break is absurdly long. Part of December, part of January. For the people who travel across the country to see old friends and hang out with family and eat cookies for a month, that was pretty awesome. Matt wished it could be like break from high school – a week and change. Just like the year before, Foggy insisted Matt come home for part of break. He'd read too many Harry Potter books at too young an age and confessed midway through the bargaining process that those Christmas chapters with Harry all alone and all his friends enjoying wonderful holidays had made him cry as a child. Matt didn't mind being alone, but it made Foggy happy if he came for part of the holidays.

He went back to Saint Agnes for the second part of break and helped decorate and wrap presents and cook. Now that he was an adult the nuns were willing to let him in a kitchen and he aimed to impress. There were still a few kids around that he'd known, but they had been littles when he left. It was like meeting them all over again.

And then, after Christmas, he went back to the apartment. He was going out with Foggy for New Years, but the intervening week was all his own. Perfectly planned out – just the right amount of people, socialization and responsibilities. The trouble was presents. He and Foggy didn't talk much about money, who wants to talk to their roommate about money? But he probably picked up on Matt's obsessive grocery budgeting, itemized lists and never going out or getting takeout or buying snacks. Junk food was a waste of money (plus, preservatives are gross) that could be spent on dinner. Most of his tutoring kids had switched to someone else while he was in the hospital and money that year was going to be tight. The scholarship went to housing and tuition, but he was still paying for books and clothes and food. At some point Jack Murdock's money had cycled through and been replaced by Matt Murdock's money. Presents were going to be tight.

He'd talked about it with Emma, his occasional shibari bondage compatriot. Not about being nearly broke and deciding between food and Star Wars junk for the kids at St. Agnes. But about buying presents and how frustrating it was trying to figure out what to get. “If you shop online I'm relying on a three sentence blurb and if it's in person I have no idea where to start looking. It's frustrating,” he confessed.

Emma also hated shopping for presents, but she'd figured a way around it – making things. “I don't just do bondage – I also do macrame!” That was a joke. It turned out Emma did sewing and painting and occasionally made cosmetics. “This year I'm doing perfume, just for fun. My boyfriend, Jose is going to smell like a pine forest. It'll be great.”

Emma did smell really nice, lately. Orange and tea and it turned out she'd been shooting for Earl Grey. Matt could pick out the notes that didn't fit, but working with the oils straight up was a bit intense. Good intense, like the mint oil, blocking out all the other scents. He didn't approve of perfume, as a rule, but Emma stocked nice essential oils and had a friend she'd borrowed more from.

They spent a day practicing for a beginner's shibari workshop, but that was only their cover. They did go over the ties Emma was planning for an hour, but then they dove into perfuming. Matt helped with balancing the Earl Grey and the forest scent for Emma's boyfriend. She helped him guess scents that Colleen and Misty would like.

“Dude, you are really gifted at this. Ever consider going into perfumery?”

Colleen was subtle, simple. She'd only wear perfume out on special occasions, if at all. So it was fine to mix up something exotic – bergomot, lemon, cloves and lavender under forest-y notes. Misty would wear something every day if it was manly enough that she could get it past the guys at the precinct without them judging her. So Matt went with warm spices, cardamom and cloves, under teak and a fragrance oil that smelled like leather. Not that Misty needed perfume to smell like leather, but the shoe fit. They bottled them up in tiny roll-on bottles and Matt spent an extra half hour writing out gift tags while Emma started dinner.

Then they went down to a hole-in-the-wall used bookstore that Emma had seen a bunch of old movie posters at and purchased some of those for the kids at St. Agnes. Matt couldn't see them, but Emma vetted them all and determined everything was either new enough the kids would have been born or old enough to be a classic. Matt had already purchased staples – gloves, socks, more socks, old fashioned stick candy and some favorite books, second-hand. They wrapped them together, Matt still gliding on a haze of cloves and bergomot. Emma wrote out the tags, except for the 'from: Matt', which Matt painstakingly inked in. None of these were for boy or girl. Matt had a list of kids and matched them up as best he could from faint memories at Thanksgiving, summer visits and Christmas the prior years.

So he walked home with a trashbag, doing his best Santa impression, with only Foggy and his parents to settle. He didn't know Mr. Nelson all that well, so he was planning alcohol. Anna Nelson needed new slippers, the no-slip tread had worn through on hers and he didn't want her to slip and fall. Sister Anabeth and slipped and fallen at the orphanage and broken her hip Matt's senior year of high school. She never recovered fully and passed away a year later. So the softest, non-slippery slippers he could afford. And Foggy was getting another goofy tie (he'd found a guy on campus who sewed ties, straight and bowties, out of weird novelty fabrics and sold them at the biannual craft fair) with little sharks with hats on. And a photo album that Matt needed to finish putting together.

Most of the photos were taken by other people – Misty, Collen, Foggy's parents, a couple acquaintances from the blues dancing club. But Matt had taken hundreds over the course of two years, stealing Foggy's camera and point-click-shoot. One night he'd borrowed the camera and copied off the photos onto his computer. With Colleen's help he'd picked out maybe thirty that weren't badly out of focus or terribly framed. It was hard doing photography without seeing. But with a sample size of hundreds, some of them had to come out. He'd paste them into the book and make braille captions that Foggy could puzzle over. He was only filling half the notebook – needed some space for the future.

It was a cheap present and it was probably tacky and weird. But it felt right and his budget for presents had mostly gone into socks and stick candy, so hopefully Foggy wouldn't be too weirded out.

Christmas at the Nelsons was bustling, though a bit less than usual. Grandpa Nelson, on Foggy's dad's side was in the hospital and there wasn't going to be a bit family dinner because of that. It cast a bit of a cloud on the holiday, but not so much that there wasn't snowball fights and absurd holiday special marathons and long walks to visit tacky light displays. Matt gave out his presents the day before Christmas because he was going to celebrate the actual holiday at St. Agnes, midnight mass and the Christmas dinner and the whole thing. Everyone seemed to enjoy their presents, though Foggy joked and laughed about the photo album in public. Back in Foggy's room, packing up his things, Foggy gave Matt a hug. “I'll describe every photo, next time I see you.”

“Colleen already did,” Matt said.

“I'll describe them better. You're missing my commentary.”

Matt had received two presents from the Nelsons, a small box from Foggy and a shirtbox of some sort from the parents. They'd insisted he wait until Christmas morning to open them. “Call us from St. Agnes and tell us what you think,” Anna said. “Foggy suggested it, I think you're going to love them.” Foggy didn't give any hints, but Matt enjoyed the anticipation. Two presents, actually for Matt.

St. Agnes had all the bustle the Nelsons had lacked that year. Matt helped a bunch of kids drape pine boughs and put things under the tree and sat in the kitchen with other graduates and put trays of cookies the kids had stamped into the oven and fetched them back out to be decorated. Sister Theresa let him take over the Christmas soup part way through so she could help deal with a Christmas meltdown. Kailee Young, first Christmas at St. Agnes. It was always somebody's first Christmas at St. Agnes. So Matt stirred the soup and chatted with all the nuns about his studies (going well), his social life (oh yes, many friends, this year that didn't feel like a lie) and his job prospects (hopeful, he was going to do good, he was sure of it). Dinner was familiar, if not tasty. Nostalgic. Halfway through he excused himself to lure little Maki out of the bathroom with a stolen bowl of cranberry sauce that they ate in the hallway with a spoon. She was six, maybe, and sat on his lap eating their purloined sweet and tart jelly while he carded his fingers through her hair until the crying slowed and stopped and she said she felt ready to go back to dinner. She closed her eyes and borrowed his cane and bumped into things all the way back.

Midnight mass was the same as it had ever been, rote and rhythm. Reassuringly constant. That night, before he went home, he swapped labels on one of his presents. Maki's favorite candy flavor was cherry, so he swapped her root-beer to some kid he hadn't met. Layer of paper, layer of plastic, that warm artificial cherry flavor still wafted through, smelling like cough drops. He went home and slept for a couple of hours and was back in time for the present opening. Sister Theresa kept it organized, going by age and letting each kid open their presents before the assembled crowd. Some from charity organizations, some from graduates, a few from prospective families partway through the adoption process. And of course, they gave each other presents and the nuns made out a few gifts from Santa for the very youngest, though Theresa and Pauleen disapproved of Santa and commercialism. Most of the presents were generalized by gender, but the kids were planning swaps and trades a few minutes in. A couple of Matt's presents yielded hisses of approval, mostly the posters Emma had picked out. He smiled. Maki come over and gave him a hug with sticky cherry fingers, eating before half the kids had even unwrapped anything.

He let himself drift off for a bit and was surprised to have a present of his own, from a group of the older kids collectively. It turned out to be a pair of sunglasses, round frames. “They're super cool looking,” Jerome informed him. “We got them at this pawn shop on the way back from school and they were just so you.” Matt adjusted the tightness in the temples and tried them on. The kids made approving noises and he tucked his old pair in his pocket, resolving to ask Foggy what on earth they looked like. But he wore them all day, on the field trip down to the local playground and while making hot chocolate and sitting through more Christmas movies on the television. These he didn't need narration – he remembered them from years ago. But Maki curled up in his lap and helpfully whispered points of trivia. “The snow monster is really big. Really big.”

“How big?” Matt whispered back.

“Bigger than houses,” she said. “Bigger than the church.”

He didn't remember it being _that_ big, but she seemed like a trustworthy kid.

 

* * *

 

 

Foggy's present was a visitor's pass to the blues conference in New York city, to go and feel the competitor's dance. His note, done up in braille, promised that Foggy would be right there with him and he'd finally get to see (well not see, but understand) how great this dance was when done by experts. And there'd be live jazz and a good time and maybe they could even participate? Foggy's parents had gotten him a silk pillowcase and sleeping bag liner, smooth mulberry silk that he could have happily stayed curled up in for the rest of the weekend.

“Foggy suggested silk sheets, but they're just incredibly expensive,” Anna said, apologetic. “And they don't really make them in college twin sizes. He said you have sensitive skin and really love silk.” Foggy had probably picked up on how Matt would trail his fingers along any fabric with that smooth and silky texture. Or maybe the way Matt always wore socks and pants and long sleeves into bed, even in summer when he had to throw the sheets off in order to not overheat. Matt thanked all of them over and over and apologized for forgetting to call that day, what with the crush of St. Agnes group activities. And he decided on the spot that socks and underwear were acceptable sleepwear. His toes still got cold, even in his little cocoon inside his blankets.

Misty and Colleen invited him and Foggy over one day, both of them smelling faintly of Matt's presents. The scents worked perfectly with their skin, not that he was going to tell them that. Foggy pretended to be disappointed Matt hadn't worked up a perfume for him and they joked about what scents would go in Foggy perfume. They went ice skating after and Matt said on the sides and listened. Colleen and him sparred. They all got a bit drunk except Matt that evening and danced in Misty and Colleen's kitchen.

On one of his days by himself, he self-indulgently celebrated Christmas all over again. He cooked a slice of ham, boxed mashed potatoes and frozen green beans. He made the kind of sugar cookies that came in a roll with little Christmas shapes in them. The kind you just had to slice and bake. He put on an old cd, one he'd bought off the Internet to replace an older copy. A very specific mix of poppy Christmas tunes from the fifties and sixties. He lit a candle, cinammon scented. After dinner he went to his laptop and navigated to Firefox. In his favorites there was a folder he'd labeled 'dad'. He sat through three fights, two losses and that one last win. Then he blew out the candle and wished Jack goodnight.


End file.
